Derridean Insights

Thanks to Unlucky Dip for spotting this one. Not an entirely accurate paraphrase of Derrida, but not too far off. Added irony of course because the actor who cites Derrida was subsequently convicted on child pornography charges.

Contains naughty words.

It's Time For a Purge

Well, the local elections are utterly fascinating this year. And I'm not joking. I'm a bit sad that Plaid Cymru have slipped back, but they have a peculiar problem: they're a leftwing party but a lot of their voters are rightwing rural types who'd vote Tory if there were any who spoke Welsh.

The Greens have done OK here and there, and there are a sprinkling of leftwing party winners too. But the night really belongs to Labour. Locally, they've smashed the Tories and Lib Dems: only the two posh wards perched on the rock in Western Dark Place voted Tory: now we know that the inhabitants of Tettenhall don't care about the old, the young, the poor and the sick. Labour 17, Tories 2, Lib Dems 1. Fascists nowhere!

My personal favourites were the results from Witney Central and Chipping Norton, which both went Labour. Why? Because Witney is David Cameron's constituency, and Chipping Norton is the home of Jeremy Clarkson, Rebekah Brooks and a load of other unpleasant so-called 'personalities'. I'm fervently hoping that Clarkson's new councillor is a black vegetarian lesbian disabled Mexican… who rides a bike.

Labour are probably going to lose the London mayoral election, but that's a weird one anyway: it's a personality contest between a very sinister man who turns up on Have I Got News For You and gets away with calling black people 'piccaninnies', and a man who could cause a sectarian split in an empty room. I like most of Ken's policies but he can be a bit of a dick. Looking at the pair of them, I'm reminded of The Thick of It: in one episode, two awful politicians from each side are abandoned in a radio studio by their spin doctors on the basis that they're both just irredeemably awful. From about 8.15 minutes though the whole clip is a gem:



I know a lot of my socialist friends are horrified by my nonchalance when it comes to nationalist success, but I can't bring myself to be that ultra-purist. I'm from an Irish background, so post-colonial nationalism doesn't seem automatically rightwing and reactionary as it might in an imperialist nation (let's not go into how things actually worked out in Ireland, eh?). Plaid and the SNP are (mostly) post-68 left-nationalist, and Labour's done very little to help either of their languages or political development because it's been too comfortable as a one-party state to work hard enough.

Finally, there's a sting in the tail for Labour. The Tories have cunningly made sure that the most vicious cuts will be in council activities. That way, they'll be able to blame Labour councils in every press release and interview. Their own councils won't care much: they've already cut back services because their rich voters don't use libraries, social services, municipal pools, buses and so on, so they're free to reduce council taxes and proclaim that they're 'efficient'. Labour councils will try to protect the poor but be forced to make cuts - at which point the Tories will attack them. Cynical, isn't it?

All about ancient Egypt

Despite being the butt of several of his jokes, The Guardian loves The Thick of It as much as I do. Here's their round up of highlights. If you don't like swearing, you're a f. u. … etc.

Want more: it's all here. It should tide you misanthropes over the festive period.

The weekend which kept on giving

Concerts and curries weren't the end of my weekend.

Most of Sunday was spent lounging in bed, wearing my very best smoking jacket, marking student essays - a harrowing experience this time, though recourse to this week's The Thick of It was a fine restorative: possible the finest episode so far. If I started quoting the rococo cursing and cynical politics, I'd never stop. It's a perfect exposé of the tired and self-serving final days of Labour, and of the Conservatives' spoiled, arrogant, vacuous policy-free triangulating - and we've a lot of that to look forward to after May's election.

Then Dan turned up with a bulging sack, alongside Neal, covered in mud. Three hours of swearing followed as Dan struggled to set up his magnificent musical equipment so we could start to record our magnum opus, a Christmas album. I didn't realise, until yesterday, that the creative process involved watching a man click keys and say 'fook' a lot. Still, without spoiling the surprise, we made a first track that wouldn't sound out of place on Psychoville's Christmas Special. Yes, that freakish and disturbing.

After that - off to a colleague's 50th birthday party, which was like an alcohol and curry-fuelled staff meeting. We danced to everything from Van Halen to Bollywood hits. Dan shouted himself hoarse discussing poststructuralism, and a good time was had by all.

Monstrous Monday

Hello all. Survived the trick or treaters? I live in an apartment block, so didn't get any (slightly disappointing - I could have abused them via videophone. Anyway, Iustin and Laura, Emma, Neal and I all toddled off to Howard's haunted house in the woods, which he'd customised: body parts, werewolves and electrical devices all over the place. The less said about the sex doll in the driver's seat of Howard's matt black '69 Cutlass, the better…

I was dressed as the priest from The Omen, complete with cross (constructed by Neal), and my massive, brass-bound 19th-century Bible. In Welsh. It's still there - someone snaffled it, but I trust Howard to find it. We drank rough wine, chatted to lots of students and colleagues for as long as we could stand, danced a little, and like good old people in our 30s, were sound asleep by 3 o'clock. Well, Neal and Emma were snoring away in my armchairs, very uncomfortably, while I watched The Thick of It before retiring. All hail Howard!

I didn't take photos, as I left my camera at work, but Emma did take some, which I've posted here. Don't be scared!

Sunday was therefore a bit of a washout. I fed the animals, we all sat round reading The Observer and The Irish Times, then I went to bed, having completely lost my voice. This is still the case - I'm at work, slaving away, but won't be starring in Tosca (or any lectures) for a while yet…

This is the news

Before I go back to bemoaning my forcible return from Norway (and believe me, I contemplated claiming refugee status), I'll tell you about the parcel I just unwrapped. I received copies of In The Loop on DVD, and Alan Moore's Whatever Happened to the Man of Tomorrow?, and also a second-hand copy of Schoenbaum's Shakespeare's Lives, a brilliant piece of anti-biography in a way.

I said earlier that Norway is a country in which life-enhancing projects are undertaken ambitiously and successfully, whereas Britain is a tired place full of begrudgingly doled-out second-hand junk - there's no pride. There's a sense that every political speech, every idea is expressed with a silent 'whatever' or 'that'll do' at the end. We are the 'whatever' culture. Here's a clip from The Thick of It (the TV series from which In The Loop came) which expresses our depressing cynicism. This is the densest chunk of sustained swearing I've ever experienced, so don't play it if that kind of thing offends you, OK?

However, it's the wrapping of the Shakespeare book which fascinated me. The bookseller packed the volume in a beautiful fragment of a 1934 map of Capel Wood, near New Romsey, and in a few pages of The Times, from Saturday August 7th 1858 (price 4d)! Every page is in beautiful condition, the language is formal and measured, and it's really hard to read - as was traditional in those days, the first few pages are tightly-packed classified ads. I think I'll post a couple of them each day for your amusement and interest. Some are enigmatic, some heartbreaking

.

Let's start with a few of the personal notices, and just imagine the stories behind them - perhaps there's a novel in these:

WILLY,– RETURN or WRITE at once.

GEORGIANA.– RETURN HOME immediately.

Your father is heartbroken.

SEMPER EADEM, "always the same" "All's

well."– 8th and 27th August.

FRIDAY-STREET or KENSINGTON.––WIL

LIAM may RETURN immediately, as all is satisfactorily

arranged.–LIZZIE.

M.P.–Your father is now in a very dangerous state.

Let him have the consolation of seeing you. Not an hour is

to be lost.–E.O.

INDIA.–Initials.–J'éspere que vous parviendra

et que vous me donnerez de vos nouvelles à la meme addresse.

Soyez assuré de mon estime, et que je vous regrette toujours. Je ne

puis plus ici. Dieu vous garde. Newbury.

(This last reads: I hope that you succeed, and that you will give me your news at the same address. Be assured of my respect/admiration, and that I miss you always. I can do no more here. God keep you.)

Feel free to come up with mini-stories for these in the comments section. Perhaps births, weddings and deaths tomorrow.

In the fucking loop

I spent yesterday afternoon swearing, with admittedly more perspiration than inspiration. so perhaps yesterday evening wasn't the best time to see In The Loop, the big-screen extension of The Thick of It, Armando Ianucci's cynical, brilliant examination of the way politics has been reduced from principles to venal positioning. It is without doubt the sweariest film since South Park. It is superior to the latter, however, thanks to its relentlessly innovative swearing. This is a family blog, so I won't quote any of the horrifyingly memorable phrases, but urge anyone who thinks that swearing is neither big nor clever to see this film. It will convert you. I certainly found it difficult to shake the habit after yesterday. Steve Coogan's cameo is also brilliant.

This clip is extremely unpleasant so don't play it if you're sensitive to finely-crafted Anglo-Saxon.

After the film we went to the Dilshad restaurant in Wolverhampton. We chose it because it has hundreds of photos of formerly popular entertainers who'd eaten their after performing at the nearby Grand Theatre. My favourite photograph is of Jonathan King (celebrity unrepentant paedophile), Gary Bushell (unrepentant, untalented, unpleasant far-right 'journalist') enjoying the company of a rather young boy. Perhaps they'd ordered the chicken…

I'd intended to take a picture of this historic summit for your delectation, so imagine my horror to find that the venue had undergone a tasteful, minimalist, stylish makeover. Yes, the food was stunningly good, but something special has been lost.

To console ourselves, we subsequently attended the Posada and then the near-deserted Little Civic. I love that place when it's empty. The DJ is open to requests and has a highly-developed love of pre-Britpop Real Indie which I share. Without the check-shirt-and-shaven-head brigade in evidence, I (and occasionally one or two of my friends) could dance like thirty-something losers without the usual mockery and contempt. For the first time ever, I heard Stereolab in a public place, and this DJ hero played Felt, Field Mice and the Go-Betweens without even being asked. Some good Breeders and Jane's Addiction were introduced to the mix as well. 'Props' to this unsung hero, as I believe some people say in these situations.

My poor abused corpse

I went swimming this morning, for the first time in over a week, a week in which I've overindulged in chocolate, alcohol and rare breeds. So as you can imagine, the session was purest torture. My stomach appeared to be trailing several yards behind the rest of me. Plus, it was all in vain, as Neal and I had to eat a cake to take away the taste of the atrocious 'vegetable' 'lasagne' served in the canteen today. Quality is hit-and-miss here; some things are delicious, others inedible. Today erred on the side of the lower order of existence.

Still, at least some fun stuff turned up in the post: The Thick of It Specials, the new Super Furry Animals album, and Bill Callahan's Sometimes I Wish We Were An Eagle.

Scabrous fun

In The Loop, the film version of political comedy The Thick of It, is out next month. There's a clip available at The Guardian, and the poster is an inspired pastiche of the famous Obama one.